and poetry have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines. She seeks a new siamese cat and a Macarthur, Nobel, or other major award/grant. Sentience appeared as a February 2014 Flash Fiction selection on Morgen Bailey's Writers Blog. [email protected] http://www.paula-friedman.com
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17.
Everyman Dies, But Not Everyman Lives
Mike Boggia
“Wonder what my friends would say?” Medic Chiron Zingaro’s voice echoed from the cavern’s obsidian walls. “I forgot. It doesn’t matter to them. They’re dead. Everybody’s dead within twenty light years.”
He laughed until he choked. They all died at once, together. I’m dying alone, without hope.
Dawn broke, day twenty after the crash. Zingaro struggled to his feet. Moving carefully on a makeshift crutch, he avoided stubbing the toes of his broken leg on the uneven floor. He paused at the entrance, leaned against the rough wall, and studied the foreboding, blood-red sunrise.
Silence unto the silence of deep space. A boulder studded landscape stretched before him. He limped across the charred terrain to the wreckage of the ship. I’ll bring the last salvageable food here. After that . . .
With the rising sun-star, the insidious wind stirred. A gentle, beguiling zephyr graduated to a stiff breeze and ended in the daily, moaning gale. He stared at the bronze cloud of hissing sand, wondering if the night’s total silence was worse than the sibilant shh of sand. Cursing, he withdrew into the cavern, donned a respirator, and huddled on a pile of blankets.
Zingaro relived the last few heart-pounding minutes of disbelief and terror before the crash. He survived because he went into the linen closet to check supplies for sickbay. Three simultaneous explosions racked the craft. Bedding tumbled around him as he fell to the floor. Seconds later a shelf crushed his leg. Impact with the planet ripped the compromised airframe apart. Pain rendered Zingaro unconscious.
After he regained consciousness, the thought of survivors needing treatment, spurred him to drag himself into the wreckage. Discovering he was the only survivor was a depressing blow. Using a bent doorframe, he set and splinted the fracture, almost passing out several times.
Alone, with no chance of rescue and hampered by his injury, he calculated the odds of survival were zero.
The periphery of his vision caught movement at the entrance. He blinked, sat up, and rubbed his eyes. It’s my imagination. Hell, no! Something’s peering around a boulder.
“Damn!” Zingaro grabbed a chunk of jagged rock and prepared to defend himself.
Startled by his movement, it halted, just inside the opening.
What the devil? Appears to be a scabby, wart and horn-covered emaciated snake. He cocked his arm.
The creature froze for a moment. The horned, oval head moved in serpentine fashion.
“Get the hell out of here!” Zingaro flung the rock and missed his target.
The alien rolled into a ball, flipped over, belly exposed. Rudimentary appendages folded against the body.
Zingaro stared at it until curiosity prompted him to speak. “Okay, I’ll let you stay.”
The creature righted itself, crept deeper into the cavern, and curled up across from him, head resting on the mottled gray body. He guessed the beast fell asleep. A string of green tongue hung from a fringed, lipless mouth. Zingaro dozed and dreamed of another crash.
He was aboard a vessel, manned by creatures resembling the one that crawled into his place.
Frantic activity indicated a malfunction aboard ship. The craft stalled and began a steep descent toward the bronze planet. The crash, though not spectacular, killed or mortally injured the crew. One survived.
***
He shared his rations and named it Macabre. Macabre ate and drank miniscule amounts. Their food and water lasted two weeks.
Dehydration and starvation sucked fluid and flesh from Zingaro’s body. Macabre sagged against him and
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
17.
Everyman Dies, But Not Everyman Lives
Mike Boggia
“Wonder what my friends would say?” Medic Chiron Zingaro’s voice echoed from the cavern’s obsidian walls. “I forgot. It doesn’t matter to them. They’re dead. Everybody’s dead within twenty light years.”
He laughed until he choked. They all died at once, together. I’m dying alone, without hope.
Dawn broke, day twenty after the crash. Zingaro struggled to his feet. Moving carefully on a makeshift crutch, he avoided stubbing the toes of his broken leg on the uneven floor. He paused at the entrance, leaned against the rough wall, and studied the foreboding, blood-red sunrise.
Silence unto the silence of deep space. A boulder studded landscape stretched before him. He limped across the charred terrain to the wreckage of the ship. I’ll bring the last salvageable food here. After that . . .
With the rising sun-star, the insidious wind stirred. A gentle, beguiling zephyr graduated to a stiff breeze and ended in the daily, moaning gale. He stared at the bronze cloud of hissing sand, wondering if the night’s total silence was worse than the sibilant shh of sand. Cursing, he withdrew into the cavern, donned a respirator, and huddled on a pile of blankets.
Zingaro relived the last few heart-pounding minutes of disbelief and terror before the crash. He survived because he went into the linen closet to check supplies for sickbay. Three simultaneous explosions racked the craft. Bedding tumbled around him as he fell to the floor. Seconds later a shelf crushed his leg. Impact with the planet ripped the compromised airframe apart. Pain rendered Zingaro unconscious.
After he regained consciousness, the thought of survivors needing treatment, spurred him to drag himself into the wreckage. Discovering he was the only survivor was a depressing blow. Using a bent doorframe, he set and splinted the fracture, almost passing out several times.
Alone, with no chance of rescue and hampered by his injury, he calculated the odds of survival were zero.
The periphery of his vision caught movement at the entrance. He blinked, sat up, and rubbed his eyes. It’s my imagination. Hell, no! Something’s peering around a boulder.
“Damn!” Zingaro grabbed a chunk of jagged rock and prepared to defend himself.
Startled by his movement, it halted, just inside the opening.
What the devil? Appears to be a scabby, wart and horn-covered emaciated snake. He cocked his arm.
The creature froze for a moment. The horned, oval head moved in serpentine fashion.
“Get the hell out of here!” Zingaro flung the rock and missed his target.
The alien rolled into a ball, flipped over, belly exposed. Rudimentary appendages folded against the body.
Zingaro stared at it until curiosity prompted him to speak. “Okay, I’ll let you stay.”
The creature righted itself, crept deeper into the cavern, and curled up across from him, head resting on the mottled gray body. He guessed the beast fell asleep. A string of green tongue hung from a fringed, lipless mouth. Zingaro dozed and dreamed of another crash.
He was aboard a vessel, manned by creatures resembling the one that crawled into his place.
Frantic activity indicated a malfunction aboard ship. The craft stalled and began a steep descent toward the bronze planet. The crash, though not spectacular, killed or mortally injured the crew. One survived.
***
He shared his rations and named it Macabre. Macabre ate and drank miniscule amounts. Their food and water lasted two weeks.
Dehydration and starvation sucked fluid and flesh from Zingaro’s body. Macabre sagged against him and
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